Booth in Therapy
by gembones
Summary: In an effort to better understand the issues underlying his gambling addiction, Booth decides to give therapy a try. His therapist tasks him with setting aside an evening to share his discoveries with Bones.


He had a glass of her favorite red poured and ready when she returned to the kitchen. "He's down then?"

She flashed him a grateful smile and took the glass he offered. "At last! I don't remember Christine ever being so hard to settle, do you?" She made to sink onto one of the seats at the breakfast bar, but he reached back a hand to her and took a step toward the living room. She let herself be led to the couch and pulled down beside him.

"Christine was, is, and always will be the model child. Hank is going to have one hell of a time living up to her standard."

She shot forward, the better to round on him in outrage. "Hank may not be as easy a baby as Christine was, but he has just as many fine qualities…" Her words trailed off as his smile broadened into an unrepentant grin. "Oh, I see. _Very_ funny. But, let the record show, whatever comparisons I may be moved to make now or in the future, both of our children are, in the main, incomparable."

"Just like their mother," he teased.

As usual, she missed the playful dig entirely, and merely inclined her head in queenly fashion. She leaned sidelong into the cushions, and folded her legs up behind her. "Did I hear the phone?"

"Yeah, Angela called. The kids are having a great sleepover. Blue skies, and smooth sailing all the way.. Figuratively speaking," he hastened to add.

"So… if Hank co-operates, we have… what?… three, four uninterrupted hours to ourselves?"

He slumped back, sinking deeper into the couch, and sighed heavily. "Time alone like this… I can think of a hundred things I'd rather do…"

"It's my experience that, in situations like this, you generally have only one activity in mind."

He had to smile at that. "Got me there, Bones."

"And, given different circumstances, that would be my preference as well, but you explicitly arranged to have this time free so you could complete the homework Dr. Cameron assigned you. Are you having second thoughts?'

"What? No! No," he repeated more calmly. "It's just… I'm dreading this, to be honest. Give me another root canal any day."

She winced in sympathy, and made to pass him her wine glass, but he shook his head. "No liquid courage. Not tonight." He drew in a long breath, straightened and pushed back into the angle formed by the couch's back and side arm. Curled as she was within easy reach, one arm draped along the spine, the other resting on her thigh, she would be able to see his face as he spoke, but not full on. It was the best he could manage.

"First — and this is very important — I need you to promise you'll do your best not to interrupt. You're going to be tempted. You're going to want to protest, or argue, or… I don't know, cite the cultural practices of the wild Maldives of East Central Wakovia…"

"There _is_ an island group in the Indian Ocean called the Maldives, but the inhabitants there… Oh." She subsided under his long, pointed look. "Right. Got it."

"Look, you're going to want to jump in. It's natural. All I'm asking is, try to keep it to a minimum. This is going to be hard enough as it is. There's no use in prolonging the agony. God!" he suddenly erupted. "Just listen to me. I _hate_ this."

He half-expected her to reach out to him, to squeeze his forearm or lay her hand on his shoulder as she had so often done in the past, but she remained perfectly still, the wine glass balanced on her knee, giving him time to compose himself. In the silence, he became aware that night had fallen, and with it, the room beyond the pool of lamplight in which they sat had receded into shadow.

"And, second," he resumed, "I want to thank you, up front and from the heart, for pestering me to go into therapy. I had serious reservations, as you know…"

"The terms 'forced kicking and screaming' come to mind."

"… but it's actually helped. Unlike your interruption just now."

"In the interests of fairness, I will just point out that I can't be held to a promise I haven't expressly made as yet. I will remedy that omission post haste: you have, forthwith, my promise to interrupt only as strictly necessary."

It was not the concession he'd hoped for, but doubtless as good as he was going to get. "Okay, then." He took a moment to steel himself, then, began resolutely, "Here goes: tonight's assignment is to let you in on everything I've learned about myself through therapy. Everything. No holding back, no hiding. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." He sought and then held her gaze a long moment. "It won't always be pretty."

"I'm not worried," she assured him.

"All right. So… most of my sessions with Dr. Cameron have involved exploring my relationship with my father. No surprise there. The one subject I always avoided, the one person I always claimed was dead to me. Lesson number one: refusing to deal with him and downplaying his role in my life was the very thing that was messing me up and holding me back.

"You know about the beatings, the physical abuse. You've seen the x-rays: you've read the bones. 'Bones don't lie,' that's what you always say. So, you know the bones knit back together, the fractures healed and, in time, grew strong and serviceable again. No long-lasting damage done. And the healing happened all on its own; my body just did its thing without any conscious input from me, except maybe to exercise a little care and patience.

"Turns out, bad as physical abuse is, psychological abuse is worse because the damage it does leaves no physical evidence and doesn't heal on its own. Psychological damage has to be brought to the surface and dealt with actively, or it festers. I'm quoting Dr. Cameron here, you understand. So… most of my therapy sessions have consisted, mainly, in exposing what he calls my 'psychological wounds.' Again, his words, not mine. They sound less idiotic when he says them." He paused, thinking she would not be able to resist airing her well-known contempt for the 'pseudo-science' of psychology, but she remained silent. "'Psyche,' by the way, means 'soul.'"

"From the Greek, yes. I know."

"You don't believe in souls. And, you hate psychology."

"My personal beliefs are not especially germane at the moment, as you must know. I suspect you're procrastinating. Go on."

He stifled a sigh. "My father was a powder keg with a very short fuse. Sometimes there were signs he was gearing up and you could clear out of his way but mostly he would haul off and clock you one out of the blue. At least, that's how it seemed. I remember one night, Jared and I were at the kitchen table, yelling at each other as usual, and the next thing I knew, Dad was standing in the doorway chucking a shoe full force at my head. _That_ raised a lump. And there was the time he backhanded me across the face because I'd brought him the beer he'd sent me for, but not the bottle opener. I must've been all of seven years old…

"It's no picnic, obviously, getting hit, but the pain from a blow or a punch or a kick doesn't last forever, or even very long. Hearing your father tell you repeatedly and in no uncertain terms, that as a son, as a person, you're lacking, not up to expectations, a huge disappointment, that's the kind of abuse that stays with you. If he told me once, he told a hundred times that I was stupid, a moron, a good-for-nothing, that I would never amount to anything, never achieve anything in my life. If any kind of success or advancement ever came my way, it could only ever be the result of pure, dumb luck."

He darted a glance at her to gauge her reaction, and immediately wished he hadn't. Her large blue eyes, those limpid windows to her unacknowledged soul, swam with unshed tears. "I hate that he said those things to you," she said, her voice not much more than a whisper. One tear spilled over and ran down her cheek. She dashed it away with a flick of her fingers.

"You're not drinking," he said, indicating the half-full glass she cradled in her hand. "Something wrong with the wine?"

"The wine?" she echoed, in some confusion. "Oh, no. No, I just… forgot I had it." She raised the glass and took a sip, as if to please him. "So… in addition to beating you, your father belittled you?"

"That's a good way to put it, yeah. I learned in therapy that there are, roughly, three phases children pass through in dealing with their parents. When we're very young, we believe our parents are all-powerful, infallible beings, completely in control of themselves and their surroundings. We believe it, because the alternative — that there is no one who can be depended on to shield us from danger — is too stressful to contemplate. Then, when we're teenagers and somewhat equipped to take care of ourselves, we can afford to see our parents' flaws but still childish enough to resent them when they disappoint our expectations. It's only when we're adults ourselves, usually with children of our own, that we can see our parents for what they really are: human beings separate from us, with strengths and weaknesses, striving to do good and still failing some of the time. It's when we love our parents, warts and all, that we leave childhood behind.

"In my case, because I cut my father out of my life a long time ago, I never got to the point of acceptance and understanding. I hated him, and was furious at him because, subconsciously, I still related to him like a child. He remained that god-like being, supremely in control, unpredictable and scary, but indispensable. If he beat me, it had to be a matter of choice. It was in his power to stop any time he wanted…" He looked off into the darkness, shaking his head.

"You know Corinthians 13:11? 'When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child…' "

" 'But when I became a man, I put away childish things,' they finished together.

He shook his head again, this time in fond wonder. "You're not even Christian."

"No, but I am literate. It's a beautiful verse. I've always loved it."

"Therapy forced me to realize that, as far as my father was concerned, I had not yet 'put away childish things.' I had to step out of that small boy's shoes and try to see my father objectively, as I would any other adult of my acquaintance. And, you know what I discovered, Bones? My father wasn't a monster. He was a troubled, deeply unhappy man, a man who needed help but was probably too closed-off to ask for it.

"Just think, Bones: when he walked out on us, my father was about the age I am now, or a year or two younger. He seemed so old and knowing to me at the time, but I'm at about the same stage of my life, and I certainly don't think of myself as having all the answers, or even most of them. He'd been a soldier, seen combat, taken a wound, like me. Maybe he'd done things in the line of duty that he couldn't live with, that gave him no peace. I have my ghosts, I know what that's like. It's not impossible he suffered from an undiagnosed PTSD. Did he drink to deaden the pain? Is that why he became an alcoholic? How many times, over the years, have I cut fellow veterans slack? Take Tim Murphy, for example. Remember him?"

"Of course. He died of the injuries he sustained after saving three lives on 9/11."

"He turned out to be a hero, yeah, but I didn't know that when we began investigating his death. All it took to snag my attention was knowing he'd served in Desert Storm, that he was one of us. I wasn't repulsed when we learned he'd abandoned his wife and son. I didn't blame him. All I felt was a terrible sadness and a determination to find out the truth of what happened. I felt brotherhood and compassion for this complete stranger, but for my father, the 'Nam vet?" He shook his head ruefully. "Nothing."

She nodded, murmured, " 'Who was Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba…' "

He stared at her, equal parts miffed and mystified. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"Oh," she said, in a small voice. "I was just thinking out loud. It's not important. Never mind."

He thought about pressing the matter, but decided to let it go. He had talked so much, his throat was now scratchy, and the interruption, while bewildering, at least presented the opportunity to remedy the matter. 'I'm going to get myself some water. More wine?"

She considered the question, and shook her head. "One last sip," she said, suiting action to words, and then reaching the glass up for him to clear. "I'm done."

"Are you sure? There's one or two good swallows left."

"Positive. Feel free to finish it, if you like."

"Don't mind if I do." He located the smudge her lipstick had left along the rim of the bowl and, very casually, twisted the glass until he could set his lip on the same spot. He downed the wine in one and then a second gulp.

"As we appear to be taking a short break, may I be allowed a brief observation?"

He lowered the glass, and regarded her warily. "I suppose."

"Then, I'd just like to remark that while I find the psychological terms in which the conclusions are couched overly-dramatic and sensational, the insights you've drawn have a pleasing internal consistency and don't in any way contravene common sense or my own personal understanding of your experience."

"So… you're okay with the mumbo jumbo?"

"Oddly enough, yes. It's been most illuminating so far. I'm very much looking forward to hearing whatever you have to add."

He set the empty glass on the coffee table, and resumed his seat on the couch. Her right hand dangled invitingly in reach. He took it in his, brought it briefly to his lips, and then curled his fingers around hers. "You know, Bones, there's something you've told me many times over the years that's always meant the world to me."

"Oh!" She brightened at once. If her hand had shot up into the air, he would not have been altogether surprised. "I know: _I love you_."

She looked so pleased with herself, he was loathe to disappoint her. "Yeah," he said, drawing the syllable out. "That one's at the top of my list for sure. But I was thinking of something else, something you'd volunteer whenever I was feeling down and doubting myself. You'd say, 'You're not your father, Booth. I know that.' And, presto chango, all my doubts would vanish, and I'd feel right as rain again. But, here's the thing: what I've learned from therapy is this, Bones: I _am_ my father. Yes, yes, I am," he insisted when she would have protested. "Not in the particulars, no, I agree. I would never beat you or the kids; even the thought of it turns my stomach. But there are other kinds of hurt.

"When I was gambling, I kept secrets from you, I lied to you, God help me, I even exposed you and Christine to physical harm. When you showed concern or worry on my account, I paid you back with anger and accusations, making you out to be the bad spouse, nagging and suspicious. I betrayed your trust in small ways and large for weeks on end. I caused you emotional pain, you, the person I vowed to myself to love, honor and cherish all the days of my life. Neither you or Christine did anything to deserve that treatment. So… how were my actions any different from my father's?"

Her fingers closed on his tightly. "First of all, your father never acknowledged he had a problem."

"Well, to be fair, I don't think he could, the way he was raised. Pops was a great guy in lots of ways, and I probably wouldn't be here now if it weren't for him, but he didn't have much patience for what he called 'weakness.' He held the traditional view that a 'real' man is the strong, silent type. He has a problem, he handles it. Life's hard, he sucks it up and deals with it. A real man doesn't ask for help. He shoulders his burdens, and doesn't complain. That view is so out-of-date, it seems laughable now, and yet, even knowing that, intellectually, I struggle with letting my feelings show. And if I find it next to impossible now, living in this more enlightened age, think what it must have been like for my father."

"Surely your mother…"

"I don't know what kind of marriage your parents had —maybe it was more of an egalitarian thing — but in my neck of the woods, a man was expected to wear the pants in the family. Ask yourself this, Bones: who's more 'manly' : the brute or the wimp? What's harder for a man to bear, his wife's fear or her pity?"

Her eyes searched his, her expression at once concerned and apprehensive. "Were you afraid?" she said at last. "That I'd think less of you?"

"Of course! I'm your knight in standard issue FBI Kevlar! I didn't want you seeing the huge chinks in my armor. What kind of knight is that?"

She regarded him through narrowed eyes. "I'll say this for you: you chose your metaphor well. That profession is as antiquated as your thinking."

"Yeah, well, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy."

"A fossil, in fact. Culturally speaking." He opened his mouth to object, but she had already moved on.

"Another difference, between you and your father: he never tried to make it up to you. He never reached out to you, or asked forgiveness, even when he could have been reasonably sure you'd be mature enough to listen."

"But, that's just the point, don't you see? I haven't been 'mature enough' until now. You saw it yourself first hand, Pops saw it: I refused to have anything to do with my father. I was clear on that score. Word would have gotten back to him, possibly through Pops. Maybe he was biding his time, waiting for an opening, for some sign I'd be receptive." He laughed shortly. "If so, he waited in vain. I'll never know for sure now, one way or the other. He's gone, Pops, too. I don't see myself asking my mother. So… I've come to a decision: I'm going to give him in death what I never gave him in life: the benefit of the doubt. I'm going to believe he felt remorse for the pain he inflicted on Mom and me and Jared. I'm going to believe he grieved all his days for the family he'd cost himself. I'm making the choice to believe this…" The words were there, on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said, but he wasn't entirely sure he could trust his voice not to quaver as he said them. "Because… I know that's what I'd've done if _you_ 'd refused to forgive _me_."

He felt the sting of tears, and though it went sorely against the grain, he raised his eyes to hers and let her see them. She was struggling, too: her jaw was clenched, but her lower lip still trembled and she had that look in her eyes that usually meant she was barely holding it together. He knew the signs but was no less surprised when she launched herself across the couch at him. His arms caught her to him automatically, even as the impact caused the air to whoosh out of his lungs. Her arms slid round his shoulders and she hugged him to her so fiercely it was a wonder he could draw breath. "I do forgive you, Booth," she said, her voice so choked he might not have heard her if she hadn't been speaking directly into his ear. "Wholeheartedly, without reservation." He shut his eyes against the tears, bowed his head into the warm crook of her neck, and gave silent thanks for the miracle that was his wife

He held her close a few moments longer, then disengaged himself gently from her embrace. She pulled back obligingly, her hands trailing down to rest on his chest. He trapped them against him, and locked his gaze on hers. "As interruptions go, that was damn fine."

"But," she said, taking his meaning, "you have more to say."

He grimaced. "Can you stand it? Are you tired? You look a little tired."

"Any fatigue I'm experiencing is purely of the body, I assure you. And, I suspect, if what you've told me already is any indication of what's to come, I'll find your remaining exposition acutely interesting. By all means, proceed."

"Okay, but…" he shifted, twisted, and squirmed until finally she was seated at his side, her sharp pelvic bones poking into the cushions instead of his thighs, her long legs extended over his. "Comfy?"

She wiggled her bottom experimentally and tested the support at her back. "Adequately."

"I'll take that as a 'yes.' Right. So… where was I?"

"You announced your decision to forgive your father. A decision, I might add, I fully support and commend you for." She made sure she'd caught his eye and had his full attention before she finished, "That's a lot of heart, Booth."

His own words said back to him, those words of grief and awe wrenched from him as he sat in the witness box that horrible day of her father's trial, were so great a gift to him in that moment, he couldn't speak. He took one of her hands, and held on tight, hoping the pressure of his fingers on hers would convey the gratitude he could not voice. When, at last, he had himself somewhat in hand, he said, "On a night I wish to God I could forget, you told me you didn't have my open heart. But that is where you are wrong, Bones. That evening you invited me back into our home and our bed, you showed me what it means to be loving and generous. You had the compassion to forgive me when I couldn't forgive myself. You could've turned your back on me — and I wouldn't have blamed you — but instead, you kept faith; you let me see you were not giving up on us, that you were only waiting for me to get a handle on my addiction. If you could find it in your heart to forgive my sins against you, who am I not to forgive my father? I have no moral high ground to stand on. We both of us let our loved ones down. The difference between us is not a matter of kind, but degree: he might've caused greater and longer-lasting harm, but then, maybe his demons were stronger and harder to wrestle. And, even if they weren't, I had an advantage he didn't: I had an ally in the fight. Maybe if he'd had a hard-headed, committed partner to kick his sorry ass to the curb and tell him to clean up his act, he'd have recovered and made something of his life. But he wasn't blessed, like me. I don't hate him anymore, I don't even blame him, really. All I feel for him now, is pity."

Silence enveloped them, a strangely peaceful silence in which he took what seemed to him his first deep breath in hours. He exhaled slowly, feeling some of his tension drain away. He'd done it, or most of it. There was just one more thing he needed to say tonight. He wasn't convinced he'd expressed himself well; maybe, after all, it had sounded like so much gobbledygook to her, but he had given it his best shot, and he felt good, lighter somehow, content. She squeezed his hand, and he returned the pressure.

"Permission to speak?"

He managed, at the last moment, to convert his snort of laughter into a short cough. She wouldn't know that her absurd formality made her sound like a junior officer. "Granted," he said, straight-faced.

"I want to thank you for what you said about my banning you from the house, about your appreciating the necessity. I worried that you resented me for making you leave, or thought me judgmental and cold…"

"Never, Bones!"

"…So that's a great weight off my mind. And, thank you, also, for acknowledging my contributions to the truly remarkable progress you've made. I won't deny that I played a crucial role in your recovery, but you don't give yourself nearly the credit you deserve."

"Well, thanks for that, Bones, but I couldn't've done it without you."

"Not as expeditiously, no, but you would have found a way. Don't forget: you successfully gave up gambling once before."

"Because of _you_. I stopped gambling _after_ we met. I wanted to be a better man. For you."

"Oh." She looked momentarily stymied, as if this were a revelation, but rallied quickly. "Nevertheless, the notion that the so-called 'love of a good woman' is sufficient in itself to bring a man to his senses is nothing more than sentimental drivel popularized by writers of romance fiction. Case in point: Jared and Padme. We'll assume, for the sake of this argument, that she genuinely loves your brother. Several times that I know of, she has thrown him out on account of his alcoholism only to take him back when he begs for another chance and promises he'll go to meetings and give up drinking for good. A month or two later, he falls off the wagon, and the cycle starts over."

He suffered a pang at being reminded of Jared's recidivism, but that was a worry for another time. He had a golden opportunity to needle her, and he wasn't about to pass it up. "There's just one flaw in your thinking."

She was intrigued by his challenge, and spent a few moments reconsidering. "Don't tell me you're going to object that Padme is not a 'good woman' because she was once employed by an escort service!"

"Of course not! Padme's a fine girl, in her way. And, I agree with your premise that the 'love of a good woman' isn't enough. The woman has to be _extraordinary_ , which you are and Padme isn't."

She appeared to mull this over. "Your point has merit. Padme is really quite beautiful, but otherwise, she exhibits no outstanding skills or attributes."

"She definitely isn't the world-renowned leader in her field, or a best-selling novelist."

"While I am both." She nodded complacently, and he thought for a second he had her, but she went on, "I expect, however, that even with her only moderately superior intelligence, Padme would see through your blatant attempt to appeal to my vanity. You and Dr. Cameron should focus on your inability to take pride in your achievements. There's still some work for you to do there.

"On the whole, though, I'm very impressed with what you've accomplished in therapy. I'll admit, going in, my expectations were modest at best, and I'm glad to discover that Dr. Cameron has not only met but exceeded them. I initially thought his fees were exorbitant, but as a top-tier professional myself, I should have realized expertise does not come cheap."

He thought it the better part of discretion to make no reply to these comments. He let the silence stretch a beat, and then another, in case she had any more observations to impart, but it seemed she had temporarily exhausted her supply. He had just opened his mouth to embark on the last of his revelations, when she suddenly swung her legs off his lap and onto the floor. "Where are you going?" he asked, somewhat curt in his surprise.

Perched awkwardly half on, half off the couch, she turned to him in confusion. "I thought… you mean you're not done?"

"There's still a bit more to get through," he said apologetically. "Shouldn't take long."

She continued onto her feet, and placing her hands against her lower back, arched her spine. "Just…" she grunted, reaching first one hand, and then the other, high over her head, "… give me a minute. Sitting so long…"

It was a bit late in the game for a half-time show, but there was no denying he enjoyed the sight of her stretching that voluptuous body of hers, a body whose strength and flexibility he had good cause to know full well. Those thoughts rather exacerbating than reducing his own stiffness, he asked, "What time is it?"

She twisted her wrist until the jeweled face of her new Patek-Philippe watch was uppermost. It was the most recent gift from her appreciative publisher, and an unending source of delight to Bones. As failings went, he found her flaunting the luxury cars, expensive toys and pricey jewelry her success brought her borderline endearing, knowing, as he did, that these status symbols helped compensate for her well-hidden insecurities. "It's nearly midnight. Hank will want to nurse in the next hour or so. I can't believe we haven't heard a peep for him in all this time." She frowned at the monitor distrustfully.

He took her hand, and tugged her back toward the couch. "Let's be grateful for small favors." He patted the cushion next to him, and she sank onto the spot, folding her legs behind her as before. Despite the late hour, she showed no sign of drowsiness or fatigue. Her eyes were wide with interest, her demeanor focused and attentive. "For this last part," he began, "audience participation is not only allowed, but encouraged."

She lit up at that, almost childlike in her eagerness.

Now that the moment was upon him, the words refused to come. They clogged his throat, choking him. He coughed once, twice, felt the stranglehold loosen. "That night," he said, hoarsely, "when I… came back from Iran…"

"The night I called you on your gambling," she supplied when he faltered.

He nodded. "That one. Here, in this room, standing just over there, I told you… I swore that I loved you, and you said…"

She was right on cue. " 'I don't believe you.' "

"Right. Those were about the hardest, most gut-wrenching words I've ever heard, and I've heard my fair share. It felt like the bottom just dropped out of my world and I was in free fall. It's a testament to how far gone I was at the time that the words came as such a tremendous shock."

She laid a hand on his forearm, and squeezed gently. "Booth, I'm…"

"No," he cut in, "don't _you_ apologize. Just… don't." He inhaled deeply, gathered himself. "There is something you can do for me. If you're willing."

"Name it."

"Replay that scene with me, only up-dated, you know?" In response, she began to straighten her legs, but he moved quickly to stop her. "We don't have to, literally, resume our places. Here is fine. So.. okay." She did not need to be told to look at him. She faced him squarely, with that unwavering gaze that brooked no falsehoods. He offered up a last-ditch prayer that his often-emotionally-inept sweetheart would not blow her line. "Bones," he said, gravely, "I love you."

"I know that," she answered simply and without hesitation. "I know."

He let out a ragged sigh, and sagged into her, shoulder to shoulder. Eyes shining, she beamed at him in evident triumph. "Good, right?"

"Word perfect," he assured her. "Bravo."

" _Brava_ , actually. _Bravo_ is reserved for male performers." She waited for his reply, but when he remained silent, she prodded, "I like amateur theatrics as well as the next person — or maybe more so, now that I think of it — but… did you have some ulterior motive for requesting this take-two?"

"Way to ruin the moment, Bones," he grumbled, but it was all for show and she wasn't fooled for an instant. _Look at you_ , he thought appreciatively. Her lips were just within reach, so he stole a quick kiss as he straightened up again in preparation for bringing this evening's assignment to its close.

"You probably remember, when my father passed away, he left a letter for Pops which contained, among other things, a message for me. Dad knew better than to write me directly. He knew I would've tossed any letter from him directly into the trash, unopened, like so much junk mail. So, he asked Pops to read me the portion of the letter that concerned me, and Pops made me listen, over my strong objections."

She shook her head. "I haven't heard any of this before."

"No? It's possible I didn't mentioned it. Anyway, the message was brief: Dad wanted me to know he loved me." A bitter laugh escaped him now as then. "You can imagine how well that went over. I dismissed it out of hand, of course, and Pops, to his credit, didn't argue the case. He delivered the message as requested, and let me take it, or leave it, as I saw fit. If he'd been hoping time and distance had softened my stance toward my father, even a little, he gave no sign of it.

"So, lately, I've been thinking: what if it had been my father, in the flesh, standing in my office that day instead of Pops, and he'd said in his own voice, 'I love you, Seeley.' No question: I would have said, like you, 'I don't believe you. I can't trust anything you say.' He'd forfeited any right he'd ever had to expect me to believe him. He couldn't have convinced me — I wouldn't have listened — _but that doesn't mean it wasn't true_." He shot her an anguished look. "Is this making any sense?"

"You're extrapolating from your own experience, is that right? You're saying because you sincerely loved me even when I questioned it, it's possible your father was at the same disadvantage."

"Exactly!" He hadn't made a botch of his explanation after all, thank God. And, thank his lucky stars while he was at it that he'd had the good fortune to marry a genius. He felt emboldened to continue, "With Parker, and then Christine, and now Hank, I loved them from the moment I first held them in my arms. It was such a powerful feeling, I couldn't have fought it if I'd tried. You know what I'm trying to say: you're a mother. When you were pregnant with Christine, you weren't at all sure you'd be able to bond with her, but you only had to look at her, and it was love at first sight."

She nodded, understanding. "In those early days, it was so hard to be away from her. I could hardly bear to put her down."

"Nobody chooses to love that way; _it happens_. It's human. My father was an ordinary man, not a psychopath, not a monster. Isn't it reasonable to assume he felt the same helpless love for his children that we feel for ours? He failed, spectacularly, as a father, there's no denying, but there were just enough good times to glimpse the father he could have been if things had been different." He paused to catch his breath and collect himself. The next few words promised to be the most difficult of the evening, but he was determined to get them said, somehow. "What it comes down to is this, Bones: I'm going to take my father at his word. God knows there's little enough evidence to support his claim, and a whole lot of proof that runs counter, but in spite of all that, I'm going to go with what forty plus years of life experience and a couple months of therapy have taught me, and accept that, in his own tortured way, my father,…" He stopped, swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, "… loved me."

The thunder of his own heartbeat drowned out anything she might have said. His gut quaked, his hands trembled. He balled them into fists, and, closing his eyes, concentrated on regaining some semblance of composure. He felt her press into his side, her arms wrapping round his neck, her brow against his temple. Her voice in his ear was little more than a murmur, low and soothing. "Of course he loved you. Of course, he did." He reached up and, latching onto her forearm where it crossed his chest, held on, as to a lifeline, while he waited for his inner turmoil to subside. In time, he released his grasp and turned his face to hers. She laid a loving hand along his cheek, and looked long and deep into his eyes, but, in the end, saw nothing in his open gaze to trouble her. Leaning in, she touched her forehead to his, and smiled. He answered, wordlessly, in kind.

"You know," she said, sitting back after a moment. "Now I'm feeling sorry for your father, too. He missed so much, never knowing the man you've become. He loved his little boy, because that's what fathers naturally do. But, he would have admired the _adult_ you, the grown man, quite apart from any genetic predisposition. You are so much finer a person than your father raised you to be, so much greater a credit to him than he deserved. He could have enjoyed a relationship with you for years, and didn't. That's a tremendous loss, Booth. I feel bad for him."

He was on the point of saying, "Do you really mean that, Bones?" but bit back the words in time. Of course she meant them; she only ever spoke the truth. Despite a concerted effort, she had yet to master even so benign a practice as the "little white lie," and deliberate falsehood was entirely beyond her. He might have thanked her for her sentiment, but again, she was too quick for him.

"Against all expectations," she was saying, "I feel sorry, too, that your revelations are at an end. I didn't foresee enjoying this evening, but I find I have, enormously. Your conclusions, while arrived at psychologically, were both enlightening and thought-provoking. I congratulate you, and Dr. Cameron, on a job well done."

"Well, you know, Bones, therapy is a long, drawn-out process. Dr. Cameron and I have barely scratched the surface."

She perked up immediately. "You'll be continuing with your sessions?"

"For the time being. You said yourself there's still a lot of work to do."

"Such as…?"

"Well, at the moment, we're exploring how the psychological wound I sustained in childhood has impacted other significant relationships in my life, both personal and professional." He hoped she had heard the implied quotation marks. He was not about to engage in the absurd fad of finger crooking.

"I see. I _was_ hoping you'd be analyzing the impulses underlying your most recent brush with addiction."

"We're working toward that, sure. But, for now, we're focusing on… ah… more personal stuff."

She nodded knowingly. "Marianne, of course."

"Ah, no… my mother hasn't really come up as yet."

"If not Marianne, then…" Some facial tick, some subtle movement must have given him away, because she burst out, "Me? You're talking about _me_? How did that subject even come up?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Seems Sweets wasn't the only one to think our relationship reveals a lot about my deep-seated neuroses. And, no disrespect to Sweets, may he rest in peace, Dr. Cameron's analysis clicks a lot better with me. So far, at least."

Just then, the monitor broke into sound, emitting the mewling of their unhappy son. Saved by the Hankster, he thought.

She was regarding him so intently, it was as if she hadn't heard. "If I'm going to be part of the conversation, it might be beneficial if I join you and provide my perspective."

"Because that worked out so well last time!" As she didn't always pick up sarcasm, he added, more evenly, "And anyway, it's more about me understanding the dynamic informing my past feelings and actions, and not so much about us as a couple."

Hank's cries were louder now. He was still winding himself up but the angry wailing stage was not far off. She rose off the couch and onto her feet, but stood irresolute, head swiveling first toward the nursery and then back toward him. She frowned down at him with what he thought of as her forbidding schoolmarm face. "You will divulge every detail of every insight you derive from your sessions, is that clear?"

"As long as Dr. Cameron…"

"You will promise me, this instant, that you will share everything with me as soon as possible."

"Or… what?"

"Or…" She glared at him, nostrils flaring. "Or… something suitably dire, you may be sure!"

He could not have said in that moment who was more steamed, his wife or his bawling infant. She pinned him with one last steely look. "This discussion is _not_ over. Don't you go _anywhere_."

She wove her way around the coffee table, and out of the living area, slowing just once to throw him a speaking look over her shoulder. He was reminded, suddenly, of another of her exit-lines, a sweet recollection, all the more welcome after the evening's series of distressing memories. He'd seen her into a taxi, had made some asinine remark about potentially being disappointed in the morning. He saw her again, that pony-tailed girl, looking back at him through the rain-streaked rear window as the cab pulled away. "That would never happen," he echoed now, though she had long since passed out of earshot. He sank back, content, and serenely awaited his fate.


End file.
